


only cinder

by bombcollar



Category: Dark Souls III
Genre: Alternate Canon, Gen, Mild Gore, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-16 05:24:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11822112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bombcollar/pseuds/bombcollar
Summary: Lorian and Lothric finally face their grandfather Gwyn, but death has not made them any more obedient than they were before.





	only cinder

**Author's Note:**

> a great question is, if the soul of cinder is comprised of every champion who's ever linked the flame, and gwyn comes to the forefront in its second phase... could another soul do the same if they overpowered him? would it change how soul of cinder appeared?

Your eyes open to a warm, endless blackness, awash with stars. The night sky. It’s been so long since you’ve seen it, with the dead sun hanging bloated and rotted in the sky, bleeding out its light into the horizon like pus from a burst abscess. 

Not eyes. You don’t have eyes. You don’t have a body, the constant ache of your joints now absent, no hollow cheeks for tears to roll down when you realize you’re no longer in pain. And the stars are not stars. They are souls, hundreds, thousands, white and gold and blue. Every former champion of the fire. Your predecessors, the other Lords of Cinder, the mantle laid upon your shoulders from birth.

Lorian is also here, your souls still entwined, brilliant white and bone gray. Even in death he has followed you, even with no hands to hold his sword, no shoulders to wrap your arms around. You understand that you are dead, that the champion of ash slew you as was ordained. Stuck their sword through you as you clung to Lorian with bloodied fingers, trying desperately to bring him back.

It was not your fault all of this happened. You should have had a choice. Selfish, they called you, for wanting the same thing every other champion had been offered. Don’t you want to die for your people? Don’t you want to burn brilliantly as the sun?

And where are you now? Was this your afterlife, destined to hang here in the nothingness forever with your fellow martyrs, contemplating your short and sickly life? At least you’re not alone. Lorian is crushingly disappointed in himself for not being able to protect you, but you know he had done all he could. Finally, you both can rest. No more constant wariness, no more pain. No more healing his broken body after every challenger.

A new light blooms in the darkness, a pinprick at first, and then it expands, engulfing an enormous space in front of you in golden flame, dwarfing every other soul in the small galaxy surrounding you, and you know at once that this must be Gwyn. Though you have no flesh or nerves, it still seems as if a great heat bakes off its surface, and though you have no eyes, it sears to behold.

 _Where are we?_ you ask, impudent. If you’re going to be stuck here until the end of everything, you feel you deserve some context.

The soul of Gwyn replies, but does not answer your question, rumbling deep as a late summer thunderstorm. It must be millennia, eons since he’s considered ideas in words, but from what you gather, you are the last line of defense. Once again taking up the mantle of your grandfather to defend the Flame, to provide that one last challenge to its next heir.

But you, Lothric, Holy King, are tired of being everybody’s last hope. Tired of being the last, tenuous sinew holding the world together. Even in death, you will not let anybody tell you what to do.

 _No,_ you say to Gwyn. Both of you, in unison. You and your brother, whose voice has been lost for so long, finally finding it again. _I won’t._

Fury, disgust, disappointment, outrage, the great soul roils in your nonexistent face, his light washing out your own feeble glow.

 _I won’t!_ you repeat. _I won’t do it! I won’t be a part of this anymore!_

The great soul insists, he _demands,_ disrespectful whelp, foolish child, he will not be denied, this is his _legacy,_ everything he ever worked for, everything his descendants worked for! The First Flame must burn on, or the world will fall to darkness! Lightless black like the crushing depths of the ocean, the airless fathoms of the Abyss-

_I don’t care! I won’t do it!_

Countless whispers join the cacophony. _Help us. Don’t make our sacrifice meaningless. Don’t make your own deaths meaningless._

But their deaths are not meaningless, even now. With your refusal you’ve pushed this world further towards the brink than it’s ever been before. All the work of the Great Lord Gwyn, nearly undone by a sickly teenager and his brother. And he knows it, you can feel it in the fury and desperation that rolls off the enormous soul in waves.

 _I won’t._ We _won’t._

His light swells, chasing away the blackness, drawing in every other soul in orbit, but you did not back down even to your dying breath, and you will not back down now.

You awake to warm earth beneath your body and the smell of flowers, the howl of the wind through fragile glassy spires. The other voices are a murmur that quickly dies as you raise your head to look around. Dark sky, sun bleeding red into a blasted wasteland, a black weeping sore in the heavens. This is the Kiln. You’ve never seen it, but there is no mistaking the signs of a great firestorm.

Your fingers creak when you move them, clad in black armor that seems to shift and disintegrate, reworking itself into a familiar, scaled pattern. A new body, conforming itself to the soul that’s risen to the forefront, ashen flesh seeping from its joints as you test them, together. You’ve never walked before, but you stand on shaky legs with his help, your brother’s memory of when he could still walk, and pull its jagged helmet off. You let your hair fall in your face, stirred by the breeze, gray and silken.

The way from here is not clear, but this changes nothing. You will see this world to its end, striding forward with your brother’s sword in hand, in the body you stole from the Lords themselves.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Only Ash](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15064991) by [AngelusErrare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelusErrare/pseuds/AngelusErrare)




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